Read Online Funeral By The Sea by George G. Gilman - Free Book Online
Authors: George G. Gilman
Tags: Western
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long.
And there was certainly murder in the eyes of the bearded man as he stared at Barnaby Gold.
‘Your horse, sir?’
‘Friggin’ right it is, you sonofabitch!’
‘Don’t kill him, Vic!’ Joe yelled as he closed fast with the far side of the stolen gelding. ‘Or she’ll...’
Barnaby Gold was prepared to die here and now. To bring up his left hand to the Colt on the swivel rig. Maybe to take a bullet from Vic’s Winchester. Or maybe to kill the bearded man and be shot in the back by Joe. One way or the other was a certainty, because not even a man with far greater gun skills than he could escape alive from between two aimed Winchesters.
The despair he felt did not show on his expressionless face as he jerked up his curled left hand. A despair compounded by many other emotions.
Disappointment that he would never get to Europe. Self-anger that he had got into this situation because of his stubborn arrogance. Fear of the pain of dying. And a greater fear of the alternative if he did not die - of being handed over to the mercilessly evil Delroy woman.
A woman so terrifyingly cruel that she influenced the bearded man who stood on the brink of death, stayed his finger on the trigger of the Winchester as he stared in horror at the Peacemaker as it was cocked and swiveled to draw a bead on him.
Then the barrel of Joe’s rifle crashed into the side of Barnaby’s Gold’s head, after the scar-faced man had leapt up and across the saddle of the horse. And swung the Winchester in a short but powerful arc.
The victim of the blow felt an instant of intense pain, and then nothing. Fell sideways to the trail and was joined by the cursing Joe - tossed off the saddle as the startled horse reared and bolted toward the top end of the ravine.
Joe rose painfully to his feet.
Barnaby Gold stayed senseless on the ground with the dust of the gelding’s pumping hooves settling on to him, adhering to the blood that oozed from a wound opened up by the rifle barrel in his hair above his right ear.
‘Thanks, Joe,’ Vic rasped breathlessly.
‘I enjoyed it, man. Can’t abide snot-nose kids who act like they’re equal to me.’
Vic nodded and looked up the trail to where his horse had halted. He whistled and the gelding trotted obediently back toward him.
‘He’s got gall, Joe. You gotta allow him that. And plenty of guts, too.’
The scar-faced man spat a stream of saliva as he massaged an elbow bruised in his fall from the panicked horse. ‘He ain’t gonna have any guts for much longer, man. On account of that Delroy bitch is gonna have them for garters.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
A bucket of water hurled forcefully into his face jerked Barnaby Gold back to painful awareness and the gut-wrenching knowledge that he had failed to get himself killed in the ravine.
He had to blink several times against the beads of water, the bright sunlight and the urge to ease agony with darkness before the scene in front of him came into sharp focus. This as he licked his lips and discovered from the futile act that the reviving water had been taken from the ocean.
It felt as if there was a fire raging inside his skull. And a lesser degree of pain was attacking every other part of his nervous system.
This because he was spread-eagled between the stoop pillars before the closed double doors of the big house in the same manner as Seth Harrow. And he had been strung up this way for a long time, the dead weight of his limp and unconscious form dragging on the ropes that lashed his wrists and ankles to the timbers at either side.
He had been stripped to the waist and his boots had been removed.
Hal Delroy said bitterly, ‘It’s a terrible shame, young man. I was greatly looking forward to discussing Europe with you. Having long harbored a wish to take a trip there myself.’
This morning he was attired in the same way as the other Americans at Oceanville - Stetson, kerchief, work shirt, denim pants and riding boots. With a gunbelt
And there was certainly murder in the eyes of the bearded man as he stared at Barnaby Gold.
‘Your horse, sir?’
‘Friggin’ right it is, you sonofabitch!’
‘Don’t kill him, Vic!’ Joe yelled as he closed fast with the far side of the stolen gelding. ‘Or she’ll...’
Barnaby Gold was prepared to die here and now. To bring up his left hand to the Colt on the swivel rig. Maybe to take a bullet from Vic’s Winchester. Or maybe to kill the bearded man and be shot in the back by Joe. One way or the other was a certainty, because not even a man with far greater gun skills than he could escape alive from between two aimed Winchesters.
The despair he felt did not show on his expressionless face as he jerked up his curled left hand. A despair compounded by many other emotions.
Disappointment that he would never get to Europe. Self-anger that he had got into this situation because of his stubborn arrogance. Fear of the pain of dying. And a greater fear of the alternative if he did not die - of being handed over to the mercilessly evil Delroy woman.
A woman so terrifyingly cruel that she influenced the bearded man who stood on the brink of death, stayed his finger on the trigger of the Winchester as he stared in horror at the Peacemaker as it was cocked and swiveled to draw a bead on him.
Then the barrel of Joe’s rifle crashed into the side of Barnaby’s Gold’s head, after the scar-faced man had leapt up and across the saddle of the horse. And swung the Winchester in a short but powerful arc.
The victim of the blow felt an instant of intense pain, and then nothing. Fell sideways to the trail and was joined by the cursing Joe - tossed off the saddle as the startled horse reared and bolted toward the top end of the ravine.
Joe rose painfully to his feet.
Barnaby Gold stayed senseless on the ground with the dust of the gelding’s pumping hooves settling on to him, adhering to the blood that oozed from a wound opened up by the rifle barrel in his hair above his right ear.
‘Thanks, Joe,’ Vic rasped breathlessly.
‘I enjoyed it, man. Can’t abide snot-nose kids who act like they’re equal to me.’
Vic nodded and looked up the trail to where his horse had halted. He whistled and the gelding trotted obediently back toward him.
‘He’s got gall, Joe. You gotta allow him that. And plenty of guts, too.’
The scar-faced man spat a stream of saliva as he massaged an elbow bruised in his fall from the panicked horse. ‘He ain’t gonna have any guts for much longer, man. On account of that Delroy bitch is gonna have them for garters.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
A bucket of water hurled forcefully into his face jerked Barnaby Gold back to painful awareness and the gut-wrenching knowledge that he had failed to get himself killed in the ravine.
He had to blink several times against the beads of water, the bright sunlight and the urge to ease agony with darkness before the scene in front of him came into sharp focus. This as he licked his lips and discovered from the futile act that the reviving water had been taken from the ocean.
It felt as if there was a fire raging inside his skull. And a lesser degree of pain was attacking every other part of his nervous system.
This because he was spread-eagled between the stoop pillars before the closed double doors of the big house in the same manner as Seth Harrow. And he had been strung up this way for a long time, the dead weight of his limp and unconscious form dragging on the ropes that lashed his wrists and ankles to the timbers at either side.
He had been stripped to the waist and his boots had been removed.
Hal Delroy said bitterly, ‘It’s a terrible shame, young man. I was greatly looking forward to discussing Europe with you. Having long harbored a wish to take a trip there myself.’
This morning he was attired in the same way as the other Americans at Oceanville - Stetson, kerchief, work shirt, denim pants and riding boots. With a gunbelt
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